Mutual Hate Buddies
by The Fairy Cake
Summary: They hate each other. Passionately. But if escaping this town means running away together, then so be it. Human AU, eventual France/fem!England, and some minor pairings. Warnings within.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, person!**

**Well, I've finally grown a pair (of ovaries) and chose to publish a fic. Although I'm still fairly anxious. But, if you care, the story behind this story is that, while struggling with a different story idea, I started writing this instead. I liked this better—hence what you're about to read. **

**I have _some _faith in my writing abilities, but please, if it happens, feel free to tell me how your heart cried and your eyes bled. I will issue an apology and maybe an internet cookie.**

**I have other notes/thoughts, but I'll save that for after the chapter. I'm supposing you find me tedious already.**

**I guess I need a disclaimer, so...I don't own Hetalia. Yeah. That's the truth.**

**Warnings: Genderbending (because I felt like it). Mentions of abuse, alcoholism, parental death. People running away from home. Expletives.**

**Er, I think that's all for now. If any of that bothers you, well, no one's forcing you to read. Anyway, here you go.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

She hated him. She really did. She really, _really_ hated him, in case she wasn't clear enough. But apparently, she didn't hate him enough, because what was she doing?

She was planning on running away with the bugger.

But no one should get her wrong. Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt thou the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt that Alice Kirkland hated the likes of Francis Bonnefois.

Truly and honestly, she hated everything he stood for. He was a womanizer who refused to stick to a woman for longer than a month; who picked and chose girls as if he were a rich kid in a candy shop with a fat allowance and an insatiable sweet-tooth; who didn't care about the poor, bleeding hearts he left trailing behind him. He was a troublemaker who always just barely scraped by throughout his high school years despite being (surprisingly) smart; who never gave a damn to regulations, rules, or expectations; who gave the finger to conformity and practicality, as long as he was having fun. He was a snobbish prick who thought he deserved everyone who was anyone's love; who loved gazing longingly at his own reflection; who was handsome, charming, smooth, and fully aware of all of it. Also, he was French. So very, very French.

_Every last thing_ that idiotic, pretentious, bastard frog stood for disgusted her.

Though that disgust evidently wasn't stopping her.

It almost made her wonder: did she really hate him _that _much?

To which she would mentally slap herself for asking such a ridiculous question and immediately answer: yes.

Thinking about that boy made her skin crawl. Imagining sitting in a car with him for hours on end made her feel sick. Trying to wrap her head around the idea of dealing with him sent shivers down her spine.

But here she was, quietly packing her bags without her father or her younger stepbrother or anyone else's knowledge. Getting ready to skip town with a boy she utterly hated. Loathed. Despised. Detested.

What the _fuck _was wrong with her?

…She might have an answer. Sadly.

Escape was just...vital for her. Really. Alice was suffocating here, and the longer she stayed, the closer and closer death by asphyxiation came.

Though it didn't feel fair that she was dying because fate screwed her over. It wasn't her fault her stepmum left just last summer. It wasn't her fault her stepbrother decided to become a juvenile delinquent, complete with dropping out of school to run away (Well, didn't _that_ sound familiar?) to live a life of vandalism and underage drinking with his so-called friends. It wasn't her fault her father apparently wanted to become the role model for all those aspiring to be wasting, stupid, senseless, careless, abusive, alcoholic failures.

Alice was almost tempted to roll up her shirt and pant sleeves to see her arms and legs splotched with ugly, discolored greens, blues, purples, and yellows. Fortunately, her better judgment (which had been failing her lately) prevented her. She didn't need to see them to remember that they were there or where she had gotten them. And anyway, they looked like a three-year-old's rudimentary finger paintings. Hardly something one hung up in a gallery for all to gaze upon.

Note to self: pack plenty of long-sleeve shirts and pants. Her rival wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing her as this…weak. Never.

Yet even though she hated him, Alice really had to admit—if it weren't for the rich bastard, she'd never get out of this place. Yes, she could be seen as using the boy. But that was probably because she was. He had the fast car and the money needed to take her away from this awful, stifling home. Although if she really wanted to, she could call it a deal of sorts. He gave her the means to run away; she gave him the 'supervision' his father apparently wanted. At least that made her feel like less of a leech.

Alice looked back at her packing. She honestly wasn't sure what one was supposed to take when they ran away from home. She knew she had to pack light, with mostly essentials. So what did that mean? A few sets of clothing, probably. Money—or at least what she still had from her part-time job that her father didn't steal for booze. Toothbrush, floss, comb, er…feminine products. Shoes, socks. As many books as she could take. Cell phone. MP3 player with headphones and charger. (She wouldn't be able to stand listening to the frog's French accent all the time.) That didn't seem like much. Surely she was forgetting something?

The girl scanned her room. Everything she hadn't taken was still in its place. All neatly put away. There had to be something she was forgetting among all of this _stuff._ Out of all her possessions, there had to be something with sentimental value. Just a little.

It felt strange to Alice to be wishing for something seemingly material yet immeasurably valuable to her. But…she didn't have to be emotional. In fact, being emotionally detached meant she didn't get hurt—and though Hollywood or whoever else might like to object, it was true and it worked. Still…might as well take something.

Her gaze swept over the entirety of her room a few times before it settled on a little brown box sitting on the end of her bookshelf. Strange. Alice didn't think she had seen it before.

She walked over and grabbed the unfamiliar object. It fit just perfectly in her hand. Turning it over a few times, Alice saw that this dull brown box was far from ornate. In fact, there were no carvings or paintings, but plenty of little dents and bumps. For the most part, though, besides the irregularities, it was smooth to the touch with no splinters. Alice weighed it in her hand. The box wasn't particularly heavy for its size. Finally, she looked for a latch.

With a small click, the box's lid was unlocked, and Alice raised it up to see a bare, shallow compartment and a slightly dusty mirror. She blew away the particles resting on the surface and then clearly saw her own face.

Naturally, she smirked and saw her reflection do the same. Well, didn't she look lovely? Look at those messy blonde pigtails with flyaway hairs everywhere. Those green eyes that had the same (lack of) energy and shine as her soul, framed by unattractive black glasses. Those few almost faded bruises that she didn't need to cover up anymore. Those annoyingly thick eyebrows that were at least _not even close_ to the hairy caterpillars a certain frog insisted they resembled. And as for that smug smirk? It had quickly transformed into her trademark scowl.

Alice slammed down the lid and dropped the box back on the shelf. She never did love how she looked. But at least she wasn't a narcissistic bastard, unlike _some_ people she had the misfortune to know.

…That had been fairly childish. She shouldn't treat a poor inanimate object so badly, just because she had low self-esteem.

Hold on. She had just been treating a lifeless box as if it had feelings. God, she was pathetic. But…all the same…one never knew how invaluable a box could be. Somehow. Eventually.

She didn't have to justify her decisions! Especially not when she was already intent on driving away with the boy she hated. Forget college. Forget that she was only eighteen and hadn't been out of high school for very long. After all, higher education and a better life in the end? She scoffed at that.

Ugh. Never mind. She had to finish packing.

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><p>Ah, running away from home with the girl he hated with a vengeful passion. It would almost be romantic in his eyes, if his mind were as twisted as the idea actually was.<p>

Francis Bonnefois was a hopeless romantic, yet even he couldn't imagine suffering that stuck-up English bitch called Alice Kirkland. So why was he going to?

He was pretty sure it had been a lapse in judgment (or an excess of alcohol), letting the information slip in front of her. But of course, once it got out, the little parasite latched onto the opportunity to get away and refused to let go. One would figure that their mutual hate would deter both of them. It didn't.

He sighed. All he had wanted to do was make a quiet escape from this tiresome town with his new car and debit card. (Yes, not as impressive as a few credit cards, but that was ignoring the fact it was loaded with ten, twenty-some grand.)

His father was surprisingly trusting of him, despite all his detentions in high school and even a couple nights in jail. Though to be honest, his father probably suspected this was coming all along. Francis was never a good student in any of his high school years. He was better known as the lady-killer and the guy who got in trouble with his friends a lot. The second title wasn't quite as catchy, admittedly. But that was who he was. Francis was not the workaholic businessman like his now multi-millionaire father. Nor was he the scientist or the scholar or whatever. He was too free-willed for any of that. Luckily, his father seemed to understand.

So they both looked the other way as his father clearly prepared to let Francis do what he had always wanted to: roam.

There was a catch, however. Of course there would be a catch. His father had specifically stated that should Francis decide to traipse the world, he'd need some sort of 'responsible supervisor', or else he'd revoke his financial support. He had been stuck for a while, searching for someone potentially acceptable, when Kirkland waltzed into the picture.

Sure, she was the poster child of responsibility, but also of sticks-in-the-mud. Plus, they hated each other. Frankly, Francis still wasn't very sure what had made the two of them agree, but he figured it was, indeed, probably alcohol.

But in the end, he could care less. After all, Francis could simply not imagine a more wonderful lifestyle than traveling everywhere. Never having to stay in a single place. Never having to commit himself to anything. Always being free to move on to the next place.

And the adventure. Who knew what people he'd meet? What faces he'd see? Well, hopefully many female ones. But besides that, who knew what places he'd find? What situations he'd get into? What kind of person he could become? Hell, he didn't even have to be the same person from place to place. He could invent himself time and time again—be literally anything he imagined—and no one would be the wiser about who he really was.

He'd start here in America. Although truthfully, he was hoping he'd one day get to visit other lands—particularly Europe and his home country of France. Maybe he'd finally get to see the actual grave of his mother_…_Well. One day. The memory of the news of her death was too fresh.

She had not deserved such a fate, though. And the fact that his father refused to pay the fee to ship her body back from France for a burial here…maybe he should not think about that. Not now.

A-Anyway, what was more important was that he was going to leave behind this dull place with nothing for him. Of course, he was leaving with his detested enemy, but hopefully she'd be of little to no bother.

…Actually, that outlook was probably more than optimistic. No matter. He'd probably be able to ditch the girl at some point if she became too much of a nuisance.

Ah, anyway, he had to plan, at least a little. Francis had already packed his bags with essentials. Cash, card, keys, various outfits, this and that—he had all he needed to live a life on the road, plus the means to get more. For example, his devilishly good looks. And he meant it. His looks definitely _could_ tempt the devil himself. (Though why he'd need or _want_ to is irrelevant.)

After all, just look at his luscious, wavy, blond locks, especially the way they caught light and shone. In fact, he did. He now was standing in front of his full-length mirror, once again admiring his numerous good features. Such as his charming, clear blue eyes that glistened with liveliness and a little something suggestive. Or perhaps his flawless skin upon which a dark circle, wrinkle, or pimple had never appeared. Or his gorgeous body and fabulous sense of style. And how could he forget his attractive bit of stubble on his chin that drew girls—and sometimes guys—like a hairy magnet? (That…was not an especially good analogy.) Well, no matter! If all else failed, a brief wink and a flash of his stunning smile were foolproof, instantly driving all into his arms.

Except for a certain English girl. But why would he want to charm that thickly eyebrowed, conceited snob? He didn't need her. Especially not when he had so many other options. And it was always so lovely holding someone in his arms or being held. It was warm and full of love.

With that wonderful thought in mind, Francis did a small twirl like the model he was at heart and blew himself a kiss. Well, that was quite fun. But, _alas_, he had something to do.

Francis sat down to gaze at the map on his desk. Basically, all he needed to do was find a general path through the US.

After some blank staring, the French boy looked around his room. Maybe he could grab a marker, draw some lines on the map, and follow those? Or not.

Francis gazed at the large map of America unfolded before him. It had thin lines drawn all over it, supposedly representing roads and borders. But to him, it was like trying to derive messages from ink after it has been spilled everywhere. These were just little lines to him, ones that looked like spindly spider legs or forking tree branches. They spread themselves across the map, like long, thin fingers reaching far and wide. But he had no idea which lines were best to follow, or which would take him someplace worthwhile. Really, they were just lines to him. Maybe it would have been best not to save this important planning for mere hours before departing.

No, wait. Planning meant he wouldn't ever be able to truly roam. He would be anticipating his next step; the next place life took him. No, no. He should let himself wander, let himself go freely wherever he felt like going solely because he felt like it. That was what roaming meant, right? Traveling freely with no premeditated actions. Yes, of course. Forgetting about any expected path was the only way to live. Francis immediately picked up his map, balled it up, and threw it upon the floor. There was now no use for it, after all.

...On second thought, he might need it in case he got lost.

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><p><strong>AN: Oh Francis. Excusing your laziness by giving it a moral, or something.**

**And Alice. Why you so self-deprecatory? And that box? That...hopefully will mean something in the end.**

**Let's list the rest of this stuff. Because.**

**1) About the genderbending: I just felt like writing fem!England. That's mostly why.**

**2) The title: It actually comes from an inside joke between a friend and me. I just remembered it and thought, "Perfect." Though it's probably not. Maybe I'll change it later.**

**3) Plot. I'm not **_**sure**_** what plot there shall be. There will probably be some drama/angst. I'm thinking there will be lots of mini-storylines with other Hetalia characters as we go from town to town. Not sure if I'm going to genderbend some of them or not. In between those storylines will probably be France and fem!England arguing in the car and at hotels and whatever. For all I know, this may turn out to be an ongoing fic. I'm not sure.**

**4) The main reason why I'm writing this story in America instead of in Europe or something is because it's supposed a road-trip. However, it's got to be more difficult to road-trip from country to country than it is to road-trip from random, probably made-up city to other random, probably made-up city. Plus, I can put different Hetalia countries in the same town. And I can include ASEANS, which you just can't do in Europe.**

**5) I doubt I'll be able to write France well. I really do.**

**6) This is my first published fanfiction, so I would very much appreciate constructive criticism, corrections, suggestions, thoughts, etc. Suggestions especially, because plot-wise, I'm pretty vague. Please and thank'ya.**

**7) I talk _so much_…but anyway, I'm working on more. I'm not sure how soon it'll get done. I'm a terrible procrastinator, even in summer.**

**Well, anyway, good day to you, sir/madam/person/thing. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello again, peoples!**

**So, we have the second chapter now. Honestly, I don't like this one as much as the first. I just don't know if I was able to write everything the way I wanted it to be, or…something. Well, you'll just have to tell me if it's good or not. I still have internet cookies for apologies, okay? Oh, and again, I have more notes after the chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Of course I don't own Hetalia. I'm not sure how much this statement would help me if I were ever actually sued, but at least it's true.**

**Warnings: Abuse, alcoholism, smoking, and expletives. England is still fem!England, and France and fem!England are still running away from home.**

**Now, if you will, here we go!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

9:32 PM. Bonnefois was supposed to meet her at the base of the hill in the park in about an hour. Alice supposed it would be best for her to leave now. She just needed to sneak quietly downstairs carrying her things and…

There came a loud creak from the staircase, and in surprise, Alice dropped the little black purse that had been in her hand. Dammit! It just figured that would happen, didn't it? She only hoped that it hadn't been too loud. The front door was literally feet in front of her and—

"Wh-Where…are you going?" drawled the voice of her clearly drunken father as he staggered near her from the hallway. Just barely dressed in a stained shirt and pants, his blond hair was greasy and unkempt; his eyes were a dull, glassy green. He was breathing oddly, releasing a repulsive odor of beer and general unpleasantness. In his hand was a single opened bottle. Oh, this would be brilliant, Alice. Brilliant.

"Nowhere in particular," she replied. It was true enough, and Alice just wanted to find a way out of this conversation, especially before things got really bad.

Her father scoffed. "Yeah, right, lil' miss A-Alice Elizabeth Kirkland." How delightful. He still knew her full name. "I see ya with all those bags of yours. Where you goin'?"

"Out."

"You comin' back?"

"Probably eventually." He should just get to point already. After all, there was no hope of her getting away scot-free, but maybe she could be dealt just a few minor bruises and then leave.

"When?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Her father squinted at her, likely trying to focus his blurry gaze. "Don't tell me ya gonna leave and not," he hiccupped, "not coming back."

"I said probably eventually."

"That—that doesn't mean a thing and you know it."

Alice stayed silent. She was simply waiting for what was surely coming next.

"Yeah, ya little bitch," hissed her father. Too bad his insults didn't mean a thing to her (anymore). "I'm right, aren't I? You just gonna leave here and never come back. Just like that bitch of ya mother!" he yelled, throwing down his beer. Alice flinched and then grimaced. The stench of alcohol was somehow even more prominent as it flowed on the ground. "Just like that bitch of a second wife! She wasn't even married to me a full year, and the bitch left!"

"For good reason," Alice mumbled under her breath. "They were people that wanted more from life than they could get with you."

"Wh-What? What was that? Repeat it! T-Tell me!" Her despicable father was lumbering closer to her. The disgusting smell of heavy drinking grew ever stronger. Alice wrinkled her nose.

"I said you couldn't give them what they wanted from life," she said, sounding much louder and more confident than she had expected she would. Than she actually felt right now.

"Lies!" he cried.

"N-No. It's true. And you can't give me what I want either." She wasn't sure where this boldness was coming from, but she had many mixed feelings about it. On one hand, she was _finally_ defying her fucker of a father. On the other, she was tempting fate, as he was certainly getting angrier and angrier by the moment.

Her father narrowed his eyes at her. It felt like being stared down by a wolf that wasn't afraid to bite down on human flesh. "You ain't leaving," he growled lowly.

"I-I am," Alice declared, turning away and opening the door.

Turning her back to her father had been a bad choice.

Almost instantly, he grabbed wildly at her pigtails, and when he latched onto one, he pulled so viciously that it brought tears to her eyes. He used her hair to try to fling her down onto the floor, but Alice threw out a hand to catch herself. She managed to stand up before her father stomped on her fingers.

"Bitch!" he yelled at her. "Bitch! You're leaving just like your stupid, troublemaking, bastard brother!" He tried to slap her, but Alice was able to dodge. However, she was now practically backed up against the wall.

"Alfred may be a bastard, but he was smart enough to get away from you!"

"So, what! Now you think you're smart or clever or whatever the fuck tryin' to leave me? Tryin' to desert me and leave me all alone?" Her father threw a punch, but she ducked.

"I'm trying to do something with my life!" she shrieked as he managed to get a tight grip on her hair again.

"You're a fucking liar!" He pulled on the handful of her hair and slammed her against the wall. Holding her in place, he swung his fist and it landed squarely on her eye.

"Bloody wanker!" Alice screeched. Her father twisted her away from the wall and let go of her pigtail suddenly. Caught off-guard, she tripped on one of her now scattered bags and fell on her back.

"Ow!" She winced, especially as a strange tingling sensation went up and down her spine. It didn't help that that punch had probably temporarily blinded her in her right eye. And her glasses had most certainly been damaged in some way.

With her one good eye, though, Alice was able to look up at the man who was only biologically her father. He sneered at her, further distorting his dark and wrinkled face. She heard a loud sucking noise and then a splat. He…he had spit at her! And if that were not enough, in one final act of disdain, he kicked her legs over and over as he ground out, "Fucking leave, bitch. Fucking leave me all by myself. Fucking leave like _everyone else._ Fucking _go."_ Then, words said, he dragged himself away back into the hallway.

To be honest, Alice was now earnestly thanking any and all higher forces that may or may not exist for making _that man _relent. She wouldn't admit it, but she had been so scared, so terrified that he'd do far worse. After all, she had been trying to do more than just take the abuse. She had actually been opposing him—not that she hadn't done so previous times. Yet then, she hadn't also been planning to run away. So she quietly whispered her thank-yous to whoever would have received them.

Still, just because the ordeal had ended didn't mean she hadn't been injured. Alice wished she could simply lie on the ground for a while, feeling her heart pulse, perhaps skipping a few beats. Some deep breaths helped to slow it, but only slightly. Not to mention, her legs and head hurt—so much of her body hurt—but it'd probably be worse if she got up. Unfortunately, she couldn't just stay here—on the floor or in this house.

Thus, slowly and agonizingly, Alice picked herself off the ground and reached for her things. Each movement brought pain and a few quickly blinked-away tears to her eyes. Her head pounded and pulsated. But she couldn't be late to the hill. A gentlewoman wasn't supposed to be tardy to meetings, even one with a frog.

It seemed like ages later, but she was finally able to make her way outside the house. Steadily, she took small, limping strides away from the place she once called home. When she reached the sidewalk, she looked back at the sad little house, imagining the sad little man still drinking inside. Then, without a word or a second thought, she turned away and kept walking.

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><p>Francis was waiting at the base of the hill as he and the English bitch had agreed. Admittedly, he was late—but <em>fashionably<em> late—by fifteen minutes or so. Yet Kirkland should have been here, fuming at him and calling him a dirty frog bastard (plus a few other expletives) because he hadn't shown up on time. However, _he _was waiting for _her,_ and if he knew that girl at all, she was always punctual. Kirkland couldn't stand other people being late, much less _herself._

The French boy smirked. She'd probably be pissed off about it, and he would be sure to hold it over her head. Why not? The exacting snob deserved it.

In the meantime, he leaned on his sleek black car and searched his pockets for a cigarette and a lighter. Once he lit up, he took a deep breath and let out a practiced exhale. For a few moments, he watched the smoke curl, rise, and dissipate in the unappealing orange light of the streetlamp. Perhaps the way the smoke was quickly scattered in the wind could be a meaningful metaphor for something. Maybe. He took another puff.

By the time Francis had finished his cigarette and dropped it onto the asphalt road, there was still no sign of Kirkland. Of course, it was very dark outside of the radius of the streetlamp's light. He couldn't distinguish many shapes, even when he squinted. Nevertheless, he hadn't seen any motion or heard any noise (save for the occasional car in the distance or breeze of wind).

Francis scoffed. How many minutes had it been since 10:30? Checking his phone revealed that the answer was almost a full half-hour. He rolled his eyes. Maybe Kirkland had chickened out. Couldn't bring herself to actually leave the comfort of home despite her apparent eagerness. Whereas he, when he had his mind made up, didn't hesitate. He wasn't afraid of leaving all he had here behind. Really. There was not a speck of doubt in his mind that out there, on the road, was where he wanted, _needed_ to be. Somehow, he would survive what was to come.

Francis glanced at the time again. At this rate, he might as well just leave without the girl. His father would be none the wiser, and she would have been an unnecessary burden anyway. Honestly, he probably had only been waiting for her this long because he had promised the bitch. Francis wasn't so low as to break his word.

But…no. He was. Or at least to her. So—?

"Ouch."

Francis looked around. Did Kirkland finally decide to show up?

"Ow. Stupid—goddamn—fucking—ouch!" That certainly sounded like her. Always a mouth like a sailor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Francis caught sight of the girl staggering into the circle of light. She was dressed in the simple outfit of a dark gray blouse, worn blue jeans, and a threadbare white cardigan, and her bags were practically dragging on the ground behind her—all while she continued to try her hardest to make a sailor not only blush, but also run to read the Bible.

Francis smirked at the pathetic sight and patronizingly clicked his tongue. "Oh, _ma pauvre cherie…_you're late."

"Belt up, frog."

"What? You are." He watched her limp closer toward the trunk of the car. "Can't carry all your things?" he mocked. "Perhaps I should help the _fillette faible."_

Alice scowled. Idiot Bonnefois and his stupid French and his ridiculous French accent. And he was surely wearing new and designer everything, from his well-pressed white shirt to his untorn dark blue jeans to his probably warm black jacket. "As _gentlemanly _as that gesture would be, I can handle it myself." She finally staggered her way to the back of the car. "Now open the damn trunk."

Clicking his tongue again, Francis complied. But not without a, "Is that how a proper lady should treat a gentleman?"

"That's how a proper lady should treat a French frog bastard." Eyebrows furrowed, Alice squeezed her all of her things except her purse inside the trunk. "Bloody hell, git. Do you really need all this crap?"

"Yes," Francis answered, heading for the driver's seat.

Alice deepened her scowl and slammed the trunk closed.

"Hey!" called Francis from inside the car. "That will damage it!"

"Do I give a damn?" she responded as she took small steps toward the passenger-side door. Eventually, she was able to slide into the car seat, although not without a quiet wince. She turned her head to the frog. "Well, Bonnefois? Where the hell are we going?"

Francis took a moment to appear pensive before simply saying, "I have no idea."

"What! Are you kidding me?"

"No, _salope."_

"Frog, you _know_ I took French in high school. I can bloody well understand you!" Really, Alice just wanted to wring his throat. Just a little. Just a little.

_"Je le sais. Et je veux que tu me comprennes."_ Francis grinned at Alice's further enraged expression. It was far too easy to anger the girl—merely acting as if he didn't take her seriously (which was truthfully not acting) worked like a charm.

"Wanker! Ugh…so you're sincerely telling me you have no idea where we're going?"

_"Oui."_

"You have no plans whatsoever?"

"Basically."

"Then what the _hell_ do you plan on doing?"

"Driving for as long as possible until I get tired, or we need gas."

"And what happens then?"

"You start driving."

"Of course, bugger. But is that really all? Because I'm certain that even running away from home and living on the road requires stopping somewhere, _sometim_—"

"It does."

"Stop that!"

"What?" Francis smirked again.

"Doing that!"

"What do you mean by 'that'?"

"That! Acting all—you're such—bloody prick!" Alice paused to take a deep breath, though her frustration was still far from relieved. "So…Do you or do you not plan on ever stopping at towns or cities or _anything_ at all?"

"That was the whole point, _oui._ Stopping every here and there."

"Then—!"

"In the meantime, we keep going." With that, Francis turned the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and within seconds, they were driving away.

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><p><strong>AN: Bleh. I don't think I got the scene between Alice and her father right, or the dialogue between Alice and Francis. Aaah…I like writing dialogue, but I feel like I'm not getting their interaction right.**

**But a****nyway, translations.**

**French:**

_**ma pauvre cherie – **_**my poor dear**

_**fillette faible **_**– weak little girl**

_**salope **_**– slut, bitch**

_**Je le sais. Et je veux que tu me comprennes. **– ****_****I know (it). And I want you to understand me.****

_**oui **_**– yes**

**Feel free to correct me on my French at any time. (I take Spanish class, not French. ^^;)**

**And now we list!**

**1) Thank'ya muchly to everyone who read this fic! (Call it idiosyncratic or ungrammatical, but I felt like saying "thank'ya muchly", dang it!) Especially to those who subscribed to this story, added it to their favorites, and/or reviewed. It makes me feel all happy and everything, you know, to know my writing's likable. Really. In fact, thanks again! Just because.**

**2) I'm kind of scared about the plot. I'm going to have to starting writing plot. Unfortunately, I really only have one vague plotline in mind, which is the one that'll be coming up in the next few chapters. Still, I would really appreciate suggestions, plot-wise and pairing-wise. I did get a suggestion for USUK + jealous Francis. Although, ****America (Alfred) is supposed to be fem!England's stepbrother. _Yet, _I suppose I can still see how it could work. Hm...I'm getting vague ideas. Yay?**

**3) I'm working on the next chapters. Not sure when they'll get done, though. Also, about the mini-plotlines and what have you: I'm not sure if I'll write them as one long chapter or a few shorter chapters. Maybe I'll base my decision on what you guys prefer?**

**4) I'm a terrible person because I procrastinated on my summer homework a lot, and writing this story hasn't helped (even though this is more fun). That's nothing you have to care about; I'm just feeling the pressure because school's starting in a few weeks…argh.**

**5) Uh, I don't have much else to say besides, please review! I'd really like to know what you guys think or suggest.**

**With all that said _(I say too much stuff…), _goodbye for now, person!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: 'Ello, persons! It's been awhile. Hope ya don't mind.**

**It may be clear that I like to write dialogue. If not, well, I do. But anyway, all my notes/thoughts shall be after the chapter. Oh, and should you need an internetz apology cookie, I still have some.**

**Here comes a lame disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. (And while I may be deluded in some ways, I'm not deluded enough to think I ever could do _that_ in this lifetime.)**

**Warnings: Just expletives, I believe.**

**And so we go forth.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

The scenery of the town was fading away very quickly, as Alice was sure Bonnefois was driving fifteen, maybe twenty over the speed limit. But as long as they didn't get caught, she wouldn't bother to speak up. Instead, she decided to look outside the window. It was dark, yes, but by the streetlamps and the headlights, she could just make out the outlines of houses and trees and other buildings swiftly passing through her field of vision. Those shapes went by regularly, until finally, they reached the outskirts of town.

Just a few more houses flew past until at last, there was nothing but vast stretches of land covered in trees and grasses and only the occasional telephone pole. Alice couldn't explain it, but she suddenly felt a strange, short, yet ecstatic feeling run through her. It was…rare that she ever felt so happy, so (almost) giddy. In fact, she had felt the smallest smile tugging at her lips that she just managed to contain. Still, she only wished she knew why, to perhaps feel this way again.

Alice continued to watch the landscapes roll by smoothly, sliding away from sight. In time, though, her eyelids began to droop and her head felt drowsy. She was asleep in a matter of minutes.

* * *

><p>Francis assumed it had been at least two hours of driving so far. There were still mostly empty fields of grass and other plants as far as the eye could see. Who knew how tedious mindlessly wandering could be? Well, technically, he <em>did <em>have an idea of where he wanted to go, but…well, actually, no, he didn't.

Suddenly, Francis was wondering if this had been the best idea. Of course, he still wanted to do it. He just was starting to question what 'it' was. After all, he was driving in his fast car along some road or other. But the best he could do was following it or turning every now and then. Yes, the whole point of all this was that he didn't know where he was going. Nevertheless, if he didn't know, where the hell would he end up?

Maybe he was cheating. After all, he had been following the road signs to some place called Wheatley for a while now. It didn't actually sound like much of a town, but he was beginning to get tired of driving aimlessly. Plus, he didn't even have anything to do. Kirkland hadn't said a thing for miles, and to be honest, it would have been amused him to bother the girl. Her exaggerated reactions never failed to entertain.

He glanced over at the passenger seat. Kirkland was fast asleep. Huh. So that was why. He should have figured. But, what fun it would be to wake her up and watch her surely irate response.

Francis nudged her shoulder with a one hand. No response. He tried poking her. Fruitless. Eventually, he settled on tugging at her pigtail absentmindedly. Perhaps this should have reminded him of immaturely doing the same to her as kids. There was a chance. But if it did, it didn't stop him.

Slowly but surely, Alice began to come to. The first sensation she felt was a dull pain in her head that became a much more acute throbbing. She sat up and saw the frog bastard pulling on her hair as if he were eight years old again.

Naturally, the first words out of her mouth were, "What the fuck, you bloody wanker?"

To which the response was a lazy, "What do you mean?"

"Childish git!" Alice snatched her pigtail from his hand. Now it was loose and many hair strands were sticking out of place. Scowling as she retied her hair, the girl growled, "Keep your hands off me and on the wheel!"

"I could do that," said Francis as he acquiesced.

"Seriously, frog, what are you?" _A bloody twat, _she supplied for herself_._ Alice removed her hands from her hair and faced the front, crossing her arms.

"Incredibly smart and handsome, of course."

"Yeah, you're really 'incredible', all right."

"Just because you won't admit it, doesn't mean it's not true."

"I'm hardly ready to believe all those sluts that fawn on you make good judges of the truth."

"All of them cannot be wrong, _oui?"_

"The majority is not necessarily right, idiot."

"They are in this case."

Alice laughed derisively once and glanced at the car's digital clock. 1:27 AM. Lovely. "Ugh. Why the hell did you wake me, anyway?"

"To keep me amused."

Alice shot him a death glare. Sadly, it wasn't powerful enough, because Bonnefois was still very much alive and breathing. She settled with hissing, "What? So I'm also one of your little playthings? I don't remember ever agreeing to that."

"You're in this car with me, aren't you? And let's face it. You hate me because you cannot resist me."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Sometimes hate has nothing to do with hiding 'true feelings'. Sometimes it's just _hate. _Besides, if you can say that about me, then I can say that you clearly hate me because I'm the only one who rejects your advances."

"That's not even close to the truth."

Alice merely scoffed.

"It isn't. I hate you for many reasons, including that you're disgusting and think you're _so_ superior to me."

"Because I am! I don't sleep with everything that moves."

"Neither do I."

"Yes, well, I'm the lucky exception that lets you say that. But you know it's true otherwise."

"Oh, _ma cherie, _what can I say? I'm just so full of love that I must share with everyone. Except you. You're a black hole of loveless hate. A lost cause, even for _moi."_

"At least I can think rationally. Whereas you can't even tell when you're thinking with your brain, heart, or dick! If ever your brain!"

"Such caustic words, _conne."_

"Oh, is that the best you can come up with? Wanker."

"Don't feel like you've won. You can never without feeling _l'amour_ at least once."

"Hmph. Figures you would say something like that. Well, you know what? Love is an unneeded emotion that only blinds reason and makes you susceptible to hurt and loss."

Francis actually gasped. What a drama queen he was. "How can you say that?"

"Because despite what romance books and movies tell you, love can't conquer all, and true love is merely an unattainable ideal?"

The French boy's response was simply an offended huff.

"You needed to be told off," grumbled Alice. "Anyway, where the hell are we going now?"

Bonnefois failed to answer.

"Arse, tell me! Don't be so infantile! The silent treatment? Really?"

As Alice should have expected, she didn't hear a sound from the frog's mouth.

"Fine. Be that way. Wake me up when we're somewhere."

Francis shrugged slightly, but Alice had already closed her eyes.

* * *

><p>It was a few more hours later, and the clock now read 3:14 AM. Francis felt ever so weary, but to be truthful, it hadn't been <em>that<em> bad. He had remembered to bring a thermos of coffee, and that was enough to get him through the long drive. Thus, at long last, they were in Wheatley, parked in front of simple-looking hotel bearing the name of _L'Impero Romano._

Being the dignified rich boy he was, he most certainly didn't relish the idea of staying here. But he had to admit that he never expected staying in fine, five-star hotels while roaming the country. And it was better than staying in this cramped car. He'd hopefully learn to put aside his pride and love for silken sheets. This was simply how the life of a wanderer went, right?

Francis sighed. Right.

He was ready to exit the car when he remembered his...travel partner. Did he _really_have to wake her up? Surely it wasn't necessary. But, in the end, he forced himself to shake the girl awake.

"Kirkland. Kirkland. _Nous sommes ici."_

"Enough of that frog language," grumbled the girl, trying to wave away his touch. "Let me sleep."

"Come now. You told me to wake you up, _oui?"_

"Frog." With that, Alice sluggishly stretched and attempted to climb out of the car. Unfortunately, she had forgotten about her battered legs. When she tried to stand, she basically collapsed on the ground with a loud "Fuck!"

Alice continued to curse softly (or not) to herself as she lay on the ground. Her goddamn legs were still painful, and they felt too fucking weak and sore to stand on. She looked up for a moment and saw Francis looking down at her. That insufferable arse.

"_Que diable, imbécile?"_

"Shut up! I_ hate_ your goddamn French! Now be a gentleman for once and help me up!"

Francis bent down slightly to reach out a hand, but then straightened and sniffed disdainfully. "If you going to insult _ma belle langue, _maybe I shouldn't."

"Are you serious? I'm a damsel in distress—_help."_

"You certainly don't act like one."

"What do you expect?"

"An apology."

"Fucking—no!"

"Then I'm afraid I only help true _damsels._"

"You damn—I'm sorry I insulted your godforsaken language. Get me up."

"…How about in French?"

"_What?"_

"You heard me."

"You're really good at pressing your luck, Bonnefois."

"It's a gift. Now, apologize in French."

"I fucking hate you."

"That's not quite right."

"…_J-Je suis désolé, putain homme."_

Francis shrugged. "I can accept that."

"You would, wanker."

"You know," he said as he reached out his hand to the girl, "despite your blatant hatred of _français,_ your pronunciation is quite good."

"Bugger off," said Alice, rising to her feet.

"I would, but something tells me you will not be able to walk by yourself."

Alice refused to confirm or deny the claim. Instead, she (reluctantly) leaned on the frog, her arm wrapping around his neck. "Do you want to get our things?" she asked.

"Not really. I only planned on staying here to catch up on sleep."

"I suppose."

There was a moment of silence as they walked toward the hotel's entrance. Francis soon broke it. "Hey."

"_What? _What do you want?_"_

"Is there any reason you cannot stand?"

Alice looked at the ground and grumbled, "Legs fell asleep, probably."

"You seemed to be in much more pain than that."

"Maybe I fell down the stairs earlier—maybe I'm tired—why do _you_ care, anyway?"

"Curiosity? Or would you accept, 'my duty as a gentleman'?"

Alice scoffed. "Highly unbelievable."

"Oh, you have no faith in me. It may be a mutual feeling, but can you not trust me this once?"

"As if there were _ever_ any reason to do so."

"I haven't dropped you yet, have I?"

"That means nothing."

"Really? Then you wouldn't mind if…" Quickly, Francis removed Alice's arm from around his neck and now held her up solely by her one hand.

Alice suddenly felt herself being dangled. Her feet were still on the ground, of course, but her legs were definitely threatening to give way. Eyes widening, she weakly beat her free hand against Francis' chest. "Fucking jerk! Stop that!"

This honestly shouldn't be scary to her, but it was too…familiar. She could remember feeling like a limp, helpless ragdoll as her father held her up the very same way after another drunken beating…

Her heart felt as if it were pounding in her throat, almost choking her protests of "D-Don't do that!" and "Frog!" and "St-Stop!"

Francis, though, was almost shocked. He hadn't expected Kirkland to react this way. Honestly, he had intended this as a little joke. But the sort of desperation—possibly even fear—in Kirkland's voice definitely said she felt otherwise. And although she wouldn't dare cry in front of him, it was fairly clear by the way she squeezed her eyes shut that at least a few tears wanted to escape.

In another swift motion, Francis replaced the girl's arm around him, hesitatingly murmuring, "Kirkland, it's fine. Calm down. Please."

Opening her eyes slowly, Alice could feel herself being supported again. A short sigh of relief left her before she yelled, "Frog bastard!"

A bird or two might have flown away.

"You're such a fucking _arsehole_, Bonnefois! And don't look at me like that! Arse! Ugh, and why must you be taller than me…? A good five centimeters or something, goddamn…!"

"Well, what can I say? Your reaction was…unexpected."

"I don't care! Some _gentleman_ you are!" Alice scowled. "Let's just…go, already. I'm tired of you and your bullshit."

"As you wish," Francis replied as he helped her the rest of the way to the hotel door. Yet truthfully, he was still a bit rattled. Kirkland's response had been far more emotional than he had thought it would be. He had imagined that she would be caught off-guard for a moment or two—no more. Instead, she had sounded very panicked…He almost felt _guilty._ But…of course, what did he honestly care? She…probably just overreacted because it was him. That was likely all.

A little while later, they had stepped inside the building's dull lobby. The walls were a drab, faded red like withered rose petals, and the dark gray carpet was anything but bold and vibrant. The man lightly dozing at the front desk didn't seem very lively either.

As soon as Alice found an alternate object for support (namely, the front desk), she quickly withdrew her arm from the frog bastard, internally shuddering. Ugh, she wasn't sure if getting here upright had been worth the close contact. Perhaps she should have crawled. But that was irrelevant now.

She looked at the sleeping man. His head was propped up by his hands and his eyes were shut, but she had a feeling he could still be woken. And sure enough, when Alice rang the silver service bell, he jolted upright. Although it still appeared as if he hadn't fully opened his eyes.

"Ve! Wh-What is it?" asked the man, light brown hair flying as he looked around.

"We wished to check in, _monsieur,"_ answered Francis.

"Oh. Ooohh." The man—or was he a boy instead?—smiled brightly and said, "I almost thought you might have been _mia sorella._ I mean, my sister. She doesn't like it when I sleep on the job, but she does it, too, so I think that's weird, and I guess so does _nonno_ sometimes—my grandpa, see—and he—"

"Yes, thank you, sir, for all that delightful information," said Alice. Something just told her this was the kind of person that could keep talking and talking, no matter how tired he was, unless he were actually sleeping. Not to mention, he had begun to move his hands rather animatedly, and she didn't want to be accidentally hit. "We just wished to rent a room."

"Ah, I see. Just one for the two of you? Ooohh, are you two a couple? Because—"

"No," said Alice and Francis simultaneously. They faced each other for a second and promptly turned away, shivering inwardly at the thought.

"Hm? Then what are you guys?"

"Acquaintances?" offered Francis.

"Not even," said Alice, shaking her head. "Call it unwilling association or forced companionship."

The French teen clicked his tongue. "Not very catchy. Ah, let us just say, _monsieur,_ we do not care to label it."

"Um…well, okay, then. Oh, and by the way, my name's Feliciano Vargas! It's Italian, see. Oh, and I'm seventeen!" He grinned at them again and then looked down at a list of available rooms. While he did so, Francis noticed a cute little curl bouncing happily on the side of Feliciano's head.

"Ve, room 312 is available!" remarked the boy, looking up at them again and smiling. The room almost seemed to brighten, just barely. "So, if you'll both just sign this guest book and pay the sixty-dollar charge…" Feliciano held out a black book and pen.

Francis took the writing instrument and signed both their names with a little flourish (at which Alice rolled her eyes, of course). He then reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out three twenty-dollar bills. "There you are, _monsieur_ Vargas."

"_Grazie!_ But, ve, you can call me Feli!"

"Very well then, 'Feli.' Thank you for the room."

"No problem…" The boy looked at the guest book. "…Mister Francis and Miss Alice! Here's your room key, and your room's right that way." He pointed to a hall to the left. "Enjoy your stay!"

"I'm sure we shall," said Alice with a weak, likely unnoticed smile. She then looked at Francis, who was already walking away. Scowling, she called, "Frog! A little help?"

Turning around, Francis remembered his traveling 'companion'. He sighed and walked over, allowing himself to be a crutch again. The two then made their way to the room together.

Meanwhile, Feliciano watched them in mild curiosity. It was a shame they weren't a couple. They could look cute together.

* * *

><p>"Thank God. I'm exhausted," said Alice as they entered their hotel room at last. There were two beds (here Alice thanked God a second time) with a small bedside table in between. There also seemed to be opaque sliding doors that led outside to a little balcony. The room wasn't bad overall—just very dull and colorless except for a single still-life painting of fruit. Despite its simplicity, Francis found that it was expertly done.<p>

"What, you are exhausted? _Ma cherie,_ I have been driving since eleven."

"Whose choice was that? Anyway, frog, just toss me onto that bed," said Alice, pointing to the nearest of two.

"But of course!"

Francis had a smirk on his face the girl was sure she didn't like. Her suspicions were proved right when he lifted her into his arms bridal-style and abruptly dropped her onto the bed.

"Dammit, you arsehole!" cried Alice as she tried to sit up to flip him the bird.

"At least the beds seem soft, _oui?"_

"You're fucking lucky they are, bastard."

"Are you inviting me to share beds?"

The English girl opened her mouth wide in shock before choking out, "Hell no! And don't even think about trying to rape me in my sleep—!"

Francis sighed, apparently not in the mood to be a bother. "Did you not say you were tired?"

Alice crossed her arms and fell back on the bed. "Bloody frog…you had better not wake me for your 'amusement' again."

"Do not worry, Kirkland. I am quite weary as well."

"Hm. Sweet dreams, I suppose."

"_Et tu."_

* * *

><p><em>She was there, in the middle of a serene scene of grasses and flowers. Her short golden hair framed her sweet face so well, and her blue eyes reflected the color and contentment of the cloudless sky. Francis could hear her laughing, and it was a lovely sound. Like tinkling chimes in the wind or rain falling on bells and making them ring. He saw her dance among the swaying plants of the field—twirling, skipping, leaping. She was so wonderful and admirable and ever the more gorgeous surrounded by pretty white flowers of six petals with a brown stripe down the center of each. Yet on closer inspection, Francis found they were not surrounding her…but him.<em>

Francis' eyes flew open. He lay still under the covers until he turned his head to look at the clock on the bedside table. 5:56 AM. Apparently he hadn't got much sleep.

His gaze was returned to the ceiling. In his peripheral vision, he could see a few rays of light streaming through the windows. The warm, yellow-tinted color seemed oddly…reminiscent. Suddenly, Francis felt the urge to walk out onto the room's balcony. And he might as well, since he got the feeling that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again.

He slipped out from under the covers and walked toward the sliding doors. They unlocked easily and moved out of the way with minimal noise. Francis was immediately greeted by a light breeze, and he smiled as he inhaled the brisk morning air and walked over to lean on the railing. When he looked up at the sky, he was instantly grateful for their room's lucky placement.

He wasn't sure how one should describe such an ideal sunrise. Perhaps he could compare it to an artist bleeding watercolors across a golden canvas…but that seemed a tad cliché. He thought of it as a heavenly flower for a moment, blooming with rich and bold red, orange, and golden petals. Though that wasn't quite right either. Maybe it was a spectacular sea of liquid gold covered in scarlet ships.

Oh, there had to be words that could capture this incredible beauty! Yet it felt as though no combination of them could perfectly embody this marvelous sight before him. Francis sighed contentedly anyway. At least he could drink in the spectacle while it lasted.

And drink he did, until Francis was surely drunk, and the only that kept him from drowning was the colors gradually fading into a familiar blue. By now, he had retrieved and lit up a cigarette, and was currently watching the exhaled smoke be swiftly carried off by the wind. Distractedly, he wondered how long it had been. He guessed an hour.

"Hey, frog. What the hell are you doing out here?"

Francis turned around and saw a sleepy-eyed and messy-haired Kirkland standing next to the sliding door. He smirked weakly. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would. Hence why I bothered asking."

"Your legs are better?"

"Still sore, but I can thankfully walk by myself."

"Too bad. I'm sure you secretly cherished being so close to me," said Francis, expecting an eye-roll.

Something he most certainly got. "Try 'cursed'. Ugh, do you really have to smoke now?"

"It's not as if you don't do it yourself."

"Only from time to time, bastard."

"And I do the same."

"Just answer my question," demanded Alice, scowling.

Francis turned to look at the sky again and took a long drag. "Couldn't sleep, I suppose."

Alice yawned and limped closer (but not _next_) to him. "Really. It's eight-ish. How long have you been up, then?"

"Evidently, about two hours."

"Wanker. Don't you need any goddamn sleep?"

"What are you, my moth—I guess not." Francis hoped Kirkland didn't notice him change his answer mid-sentence.

"What could have possibly kept you up?" It seemed she hadn't. Or she had ignored it.

"A strange dream. The beautiful sunrise. And may I say, it was a gorgeous one you missed out on."

"Sure...Hey, aren't you tainting your precious sky with the dirty air you're breathing? Well, technically, you poison the air with every word you speak."

Would it be too much to blow smoke in her face? But Francis restrained himself in the end—after all, he could easily be more of a gentleman than she was a lady. "Say what you will; you did not get to witness this amazing sight."

"Really? Oh well. I don't mind."

"_Quoi?_ How can you not care? It was extraordinary! Absolutely magnificent! Poetic!"

"I didn't see it, I didn't plan on seeing it, and I won't see it. I have no use in feeling disappointed."

"_Absurdité!_ You should lament every lost opportunity to treasure such exquisite beauty!"

"If I did, I would be lamenting all of the time, and I would have no time to spare."

Francis managed to hold his tongue long enough to look at Kirkland's cynical expression. It hurt his heart to see someone so cruel and unreceptive. He scowled at her. "Your pessimism astounds me."

"I can't stand your idiotic idealism, either."

The two of them scornfully looked away from each other and at their own little sections of sky. Now they were playing a wordlessly agreed-upon game. Neither would crack under the silence if it could be helped. They would carefully observe their pieces of blue and bits of white until one of them broke, and the one would not be him _or_ her. They did not move or make a sound, and both were clearly feeling the pressure building quietly.

At last, the two succumbed and glanced at each other—breaking the tension, but both effectively losing.

Alice spoke first. "You mentioned a dream, didn't you, Bonnefois?"

Francis eyed her warily. "_Oui._ Why do you ask?"

"What was it about?"

Darkness spread over the French boy's eyes, and he immediately turned away again to stare at a different patch of sky. "Nothing important," he answered. _To you, anyway._

"Uh-huh. And I still have no trust in you."

"It was just a dream."

"Yes, and?"

"I have rights to privacy."

"You don't act like it, the way you practically put your body on display."

"It is obviously a different kind of privacy."

Alice scoffed. "What _horrible_ secrets could Francis Bonnefois—pretty rich boy, womanizer, and proud delinquent—have and want to _hide?"_

Tears were suddenly pricking at his eyes, but Francis was just hoping that Kirkland would not be able to see them. "I'm sure you have your share of secrets you wouldn't wish to divulge."

Alice froze for a second but forced herself to respond. "M-Maybe. But I can't imagine how terrible something has to be for _you_ to actually want to hide it. Normally you like to obnoxiously flaunt your accomplishments, good or bad."

"Well, maybe there just a few things I don't like to share," hissed Francis, praying his voice had not cracked. He quickly took another drag on his diminishing cigarette to try to distract himself as he carefully breathed in and out. No, he didn't want to think about this anymore. He didn't want to think about how he had surely disappointed _her_, or how he had disrespected her when she lived, or _anything_ to do with her. He didn't want to recall any of it. He screwed his eyes shut and only hoped that he could forget everything to do with her before the tears broke through.

Alice, on the other hand, had almost been taken aback at the gravity in the French boy's tone. There had been none of the usual humor or nonchalance, and that had been at least the slightest bit unsettling to her. She wasn't sure if she should say or do anything, so she simply stepped back into the hotel room, leaving the boy resting alone on the balcony railing.

As he observed the flaky ashes of his used cigarette fall bit by bit from his fingers and onto the ground below, Francis heard the doors slide shut and the faint rustle of curtains. He supposed Kirkland had wanted to give him the privacy he desired after all. How oddly considerate of her. But he was grateful for it as the first few tears slipped out freely.

* * *

><p><strong>Translations (Note: The language is French unless otherwise specified.):<strong>

_**moi **_**– me**

_**conne **_**– It developed from the meaning of 'cunt', but apparently it's more like 'fool/idiot'? Well, it's not a nice name, at least.**

_**l'amour **_**- love**

_**L'Impero Romano **_**– The Roman Empire (It's Italian, and yes, I know. I'm **_**sooo**_** creative.)**

_**Nous sommes ici. **_**– We're here.**

_**Que diable, imbécile? **_**– What the hell, idiot?**

_**ma belle langue **_**– my beautiful language**

_**Je suis désolé, putain homme.**_– **I'm sorry, man-whore.**

_**français **_**– French**

_**monsieur **_**– mister**

_**Grazie! **_**– Thanks! (Italian)**

_**Et tu. **_**– And you.**

_**Quoi? **_**– What?**

_**Absurdité! **_**– Nonsense!**

**And don't be afraid to correct me on any of this!**

**A/N: Lots of listing! Here we go!**

**1) We see some angst from Francis! Honestly, I think I tend to write Alice's perspective more. I don't know if that's apparent, but that's how I feel.**

**2) Ugh. That scene with Francis 'helping' Alice out…dislike. I wanted to write a scene like that, so I did, but it's lame...maybe I'll rewrite it sometime. Well, this chapter as a whole is cringe-worthy to me. After all, since when did I ever like my own writing? Yay, self-deprecation.**

**3) I try to write in advance because I don't like deadlines/keeping people waiting, but I'm starting to run out of that buffer stuff. Why do I bring this up? Because coupled with this, the fact that s****chool is starting soon (but I'm still not done with my homework, aaah), and the fact that**** the mini-plot is still _vaaague_,**** updates may start coming later. Not that they were coming that quickly anyway. ****But, ah, we shall practice our patience-ish-ness skills, yes?**

**4) Um…that's probably all. Except for this: once again, thank you to those who reviewed, favorite'd, or subscribed! It's a really nice feeling to see emails about that stuff, and it really makes me want to live up to your expectations. Whether I do or not…*nervous laughter*...you guys can go ahead and tell me, I suppose.**

**As always, I talk way too much. Well, all right. Goodbye for now, peoples!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sigh. I don't quite like this chapter, because it feels silly**_**.**_** But this _is_ how I wanted to write the story, sort of. You know, France and fem!England helping other people out, becoming friends along the way. I just feel as though I've made characters OOC in the process or something. That, and this feels so much like **_**filler**_**. Dang it.**

**Well, basically, this is a Spain/fem!Romano subplot. I don't read/write Spamano too often, but I wrote it partly because it seemed easy. Yeah, I'm lame. But this was the first subplot I could come up with, so…**

**Romina Vargas is fem!Romano. Because.**

**Also, I think I'm going to start replying to anonymous reviews here. Because I like talking to people!**

**Funni – First, thanks for your review! And yeah, I couldn't see France as a rapist/pervert here, so instead, he's a womanizing delinquent. I don't see genderbends very often, period, much less fem!England. And wow, I don't know about wonderful, but at least people like my writing. And my username, apparently. :) Also, that ladylike side will show more with other characters, less with Francis. As for her delinquency, I plan on developing her past (and Francis') later. And it's okay; I don't mind suggestions. They can give me ideas, and I need those things. Hm, the romance-ish-ness should come eventually, but how soon is anyone's guess. But anyway, thanks again!**

**So…****disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. How much more shocking can I get?**

**Warnings: Mentions of parental death. Expletives. (I mean, it's England + Romano, mate.)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

"You were out there awhile, Bonnefois," remarked Alice with a weak smirk as she saw Francis open the door and walk back into the room. "What were you doing? Actually…maybe I wouldn't want to know."

"Whatever you are implying, Kirkland, I would never stoop so low. And I would never tell you about it, anyway," replied Francis, heading straight for his bed and falling on top of it with a sigh.

"Seriously? You're planning on taking another nap?"

"I only got three hours of sleep—hush."

"Hmph. I suppose I can go spend some time in town."

"You do that. Oh, but do me a favor, _s'il te plaît._"

"What is it?"

"Can you ask about who painted that lovely picture on the wall?"

"What, this one? It's just fruit."

"Ah, but it is so beautiful, _oui?_"

Alice shrugged. To her, it was merely a painting of red and green grapes laid out on a wooden table. Perhaps the subtleties in the shadows and colors were fairly remarkable, but in the end, they were just _grapes._ "It looks nice, I suppose."

Francis clicked his tongue. "You have no appreciation for art."

"It's fruit! What do you _want_ me to say?"

The French teen sighed. "Just…ask around, will you?"

"Fine," said Alice as she grabbed her purse and headed out.

An annoying trip down the stairs later (but she wouldn't admit her legs still hurt, of course), she found herself back in the lobby. This time, a girl was at the front desk, sleeping as that Feliciano boy had been. She was also remarkably similar to him in appearance. Her hair was darker and longer, yet she still had a peculiar curl like the boy. Perhaps the two were related.

"Excuse me, miss." The girl did not wake up at the sound of her voice. Alice then tried the service bell, and as it had before, it worked now.

"God-fucking-dammit! _Che cazzo vuoi?_" Tired brown eyes darted about, hunting for the one guilty of ringing the bell. They landed upon the English girl in front of the desk. "Who the fuck are you?" snarled the brunette.

Naturally, Alice was affronted. Who did this girl think she was, acting so unladylike? "My name is Alice Kirkland. You know, you're awfully rude to your customers, miss. Nothing like that boy earlier this morning—although he was very talkative…"

"Feli? Well, yeah. The cheery bastard's like that."

"Hmph. You have quite the mouth."

"Ha! And you have quite the eyebrows."

The brunette had apparently struck a chord. "What…What the hell did you say!" Alice was about to lunge at the girl, when she remembered her gentlewomanly manners. "I mean…I was quite offended by that comment," she amended, crossing her arms.

"Looks like you're not such a pretentious snob, after all," replied the other girl with a smirk.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Hey, bitch, come off it. You're not as superior as you act."

A scowl found its way to Alice's lips. "Maybe. But at least I can watch my mouth if I want to."

"Yeah, yeah—sure you can. So what the hell did you wake me up for?"

"Honestly, I don't care, but my…" Alice mumbled something, "…wanted me to ask about the painting in our room."

"Your…what?"

"Ugh. Look, we're not friends, companions, or even acquaintances. I don't know what we are, okay?"

"What, is it a guy? Are you fuck-buddies?"

Alice's mouth dropped at the outrageous suggestion. "Absolutely bloody not! I wouldn't let the bugger anywhere near my bed."

"And yet…you're sharing a room?"

"It…It saves money!" Not that Bonnefois would _need_ to.

"Sure…"

"Look, will you please answer my question or not?"

The brunette girl scowled, eyes narrowing. "It was my ever so _talented_ little brother. He painted every last thing in all the hotel rooms."

"You have a younger brother?"

"Yeah. That boy you mentioned was at the desk earlier? Feliciano Vargas? That's him."

"Really? So what does make you?"

"_Obviously_ his sister."

"I _meant_ your name."

"You could have just asked that. Romina Vargas." She held out her hand in an almost sarcastic manner, but Alice shook it anyway. "It's not a fucking pleasure to meet you."

"I feel the same."

Romina smirked. "You know what? You're not _half_-bad. Even if you act like an arrogant dick."

"I'm _delighted_ to hear I'm tolerable despite such failings."

"Hey, who said you're tolerable? You're still a snob."

"Oh, belt up."

"'Belt up'?"

"It's a British expression, all right? It means 'shut up'."

Romina shrugged. "Whatever. So, did you _really_ come down here to have a leisurely conversation?"

"No…I suppose not. Honestly, all I wanted to know was who did that painting. Although it is surprising to hear that boy's a painter."

"What did you expect him to be, a goddamn football player?"

Alice smiled wryly. "Certainly not. I suppose he looks the artistic type after all."

The brown-eyed girl crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "Yeah. The old man just _loves_ him for it. Absolutely adores the bastard."

"Who? Your father?"

"My grandfather. My mom and dad died years ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, love."

"What the fuck do you have to be sorry for?"

Alice huffed lightly. "I don't know. Perhaps I was just trying to be polite. You needn't be so offended."

The Italian scoffed. "But that's the thing. You say that because you're supposed to say that kind of crap. Not because you give a fuck."

The blonde paused to absorb the other girl's words. "I did mean it—"

"Sure you did."

"—but you might have a point."

"Yeah, of course I do. People do all sorts of shit because it's expected of them. No other reason than that. It's some serious fucking bull."

"But…if we didn't have to meet anyone's expectations, what would we do?"

"Huh. It's funny you should ask that."

"Oh? Why?"

Romina looked at Alice defensively. "Why the hell should I tell you?"

"You brought it up."

"Doesn't mean I want to discuss it."

"Well, now I'm curious."

"Bitch."

"Apparently."

"I don't have to tell you," protested the Italian, face growing red from annoyance.

"No, but that's not going to stop me."

"_Che! Che cazzo ti frega?"_

"You know, if you insult me in Italian, I can't be offended because I can't understand you."

"Fuck you."

"Sorry, dear, I don't swing that way."

"I don't even know you! You're just a stupid customer!"

"You know, from how resistant you're being, I have a feeling you don't talk about this sort of thing to anyone."

"_So?_ Why should I?"

"Get things off your chest?" Alice shrugged.

"Hmph. I bet you do the exact same thing!"

Several memories flashed quickly through Alice's mind. "…A-And what if I do?"

"Being a hypocrite doesn't help your case."

"I could take my own advice, but I choose not to."

"Funny. I choose to do the same."

"There's no way of getting you to say anything?"

"Not anytime soon."

"I see. But it's related to your brother, isn't it?"

"What! O-Of course not. Just because Feli's so _gifted_ and _special _and _beloved_ and _perfect?_ No…of course he has nothing to do with it…"

"Oddly specific denial."

"So what if it is! Ugh, I take it back—you're way worse than 'half-bad'."

"If you say so. But why won't you just tell me?"

"Because it's none of your fucking business!"

"Maybe I'll _make _it my business."

"How the hell do you plan to do that?"

"I'm going to find out what it is, and then I'm going to help you out."

"Who said I needed a random asshole's help?"

"I did, just now."

Romina scowled fiercely enough to rival one of Alice's enraged expressions (which was certainly saying something). "You know, bitch, you seemed less nosy at first."

"Call me stubborn."

"You sure as fuck are. I mean, do you do this with everyone you know?"

"Only the ones that make me want to give a damn."

"I'm so _flattered_ that you think I'm worth your time."

"Perhaps you should be. From the way it sounds, your grandfather spends a lot more time on your brother than you."

"…H-How the hell do you figure that?"

"I'm not just a pretentious bitch. I have a brain, not hot air, up here."

"W-Well maybe you're still wrong!"

"I doubt it."

"I really want to call the Mafia on you, bitch."

"I also doubt that they're at your disposal."

Romina sighed angrily and glared at Alice as if her eyes could shoot out the other girl's brains. Then, leaning forward, she propped herself on the desk. "Fine, fine, fine. I still think you suck hairy balls, though." Another frustrated sigh. "…Y-You know how my idiot brother's a _great_ _artist_ and everything?"

"I suppose."

"Well, guess-fucking-what? My grandfather's using all the money he can to help Feli get into the best art school possible."

"But that sounds quite good—"

"_Except_ that it means I'm getting _merda_. Shit. The old man's just gonna let me run this stupid-ass hotel for the rest of my life. After all, no one else can do it when he's gone. So whoop-dee-fucking-doo for me. All because Feli's some _wonderful _painter, and what am I?" Romina stopped, but she clearly was not waiting for an answer. "Nothing. Nothing in anybody's eyes.

"I mean…my parents are long dead, so what the hell do they know or care? I don't have any goddamn friends. I suck at sports and arts and school and whatever. I'm a talentless bitch, simply put. And Feli and gramps are too fucking oblivious in their own good, pleasant little world to notice anything. Nobody expects anything but _shit_ from me. In fact, nobody expects _anything_ from me, period."

"…Please don't be that way."

"Why? Because it doesn't sound like happiness and sunshine and flowers? Because it sounds like a bitter and cold truth? Well, that's 'cause it fucking is."

Alice was staring at the ground now. She was starting to hate this conversation. And she was starting to hate not restraining her empathy earlier, because now, all of Romina's words and feelings conjured up memories of a certain time in her life of which she was not particularly proud. It had been one of the lowest points in her life that she had probably worsened with her ignorant foolishness. And now all of this was making her feel weak and silly and stupid and pathetic all over again.

Meanwhile, Romina had buried her face into her arms lying on the desk. She honestly felt as if she had wrenched her heart open to let a stranger stare at it in quiet, disturbing fascination. This was why she hated talking to other people. This was why she hated other people, period. Everything to them could potentially be a subject of morbid curiosity. It was detestable.

"Nothing to say, huh, bitch," growled Romina into her arms.

Alice stayed silent a little while longer. Then, she mumbled, "I think I know how you feel."

"I don't believe that bullshit."

"Well…if you're bearing your soul to me, maybe I should do the same. I-It's only fair."

Romina slowly looked up at Alice with a raised brow, seemingly in wait.

"Yes, ah. My birth mum left my…biological father because of his alcoholism. And my 'father' just drank more because of that. There were certain…consequences of that for me. Later, my 'father' remarried a woman with a kid one or two years younger than me. Things were okay, until my stepmum left for the same reason as my first mum. My stepbrother became a delinquent not long after that, and my father started drinking more and more. That time after my stepmum left…was probably one of the worst periods of my whole life."

"…What did you do?" Romina's voice was suddenly very solemn, with none of the anger she had previously.

"Lots of things I'm not proud of. And if you don't mind, things I don't really want to share."

Both girls looked each other in the eye and instantly knew: they were both pretty damn desperate for something else in their lives than this pain and hopelessness. They both needed some sort of escape. And while Alice was already working on that, Romina was stuck here in this cold, lifeless hotel that had nothing for her.

Alice was certain now. "I'm going to help you," she declared. "I swear, I'm not leaving this town until you can escape this damned hotel and everything else that comes with it."

"Good fucking luck," snarled Romina—but at least it wasn't a no.

Giving the other girl as kind of a smile as she could muster, Alice headed outside as she had earlier planned. But now, she had something to think about as she wandered Wheatley.

She stepped out into the cool air, a gust quickly flowing past her. Making her way through the parking lot, Alice directed herself toward the shops, apartments, and other buildings lining a road a little ways away. She reached the sidewalk and began to walk along, feeling the occasional rush of air when cars drove by and hearing the light buzz of people carrying about their business. As she settled into a steady walking pace, she let her mind think about the Italian girl.

Sadly, Alice had no idea where to start. She had just promised someone—about whom she knew virtually nothing aside from what had been mentioned in their conversation—her help in 'escaping', solely because she sympathized. And sure, she wouldn't want to be stuck like Romina, with no other way to go but the one already presented to her. That was worse than having no idea where to go, because at least then one had a choice. But to be cursed to suffer through a lifetime of monotony, without a chance to change it…she wouldn't wish that on anyone if she could help it.

(Well, maybe the frog.)

Was Alice going soft, allowing herself to care about someone so quickly? It was dangerous—Hollywood's objections overruled. After all, one never knew how soon things could go wrong or how people might turn out to be different than one had thought. Nevertheless…she had said she would help, and a gentlewoman kept her word. No matter how incapable she really was. Because Alice had to face it: she herself just barely got away, and with her hated enemy, no less. How was she supposed to help someone else?

Ugh, why couldn't the French wanker be here now? Even if he were to act insufferable as always, she could still use someone to talk to about this. But…no. She didn't need his help. She refused to admit that she might.

Alice lifted her head up to see where her legs had taken her. It looked like a downtown area—more or less—with one or two restaurants on the street corners and shops selling this and that along the road. Glancing around, she saw a modest café named _El Camino a España._Whatever the hell that meant. But she could use some tea. Thinking over tea was always much easier.

As she walked into the interior, Alice instantly noticed the cheery, hospitable atmosphere. The café was decorated in a mix of rich reds, golden browns, and light yellows. Bright lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating the area with a soft, warm glow. There were many comfortable-looking chairs seated around a simple glass coffee table on the left that a few people were already occupying, having conversations and laughing every now and then. There also were a few chairs and tables near the window, and Alice was immediately drawn to them. Unfortunately, as she made her way there, someone just happened to cross her path. Inevitably, they collided.

"Oh, my, I'm so sorry!" cried Alice, stepping back to see whom she had crashed into. It was a very well-tanned teenaged boy around her age or older, with a mop of messy brown curls; green eyes containing a spiritedly dancing optimism; and a smile that clearly indicated that this was the kind of person who hardly knew how to frown.

"No, no, _¡perdóneme!_ " he said, holding out a hand _just_ in case the girl should lose her balance. "I should have been paying more attention where I walk. Especially to such a pretty lady such as yourself." He smiled even wider, and that only made the steadily growing blush on her face redden faster.

"Well, th-that's very kind of you, sir. Ah, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name?"

The other teen chuckled. "Why would I mind telling you my name? I'm Antonio Fernandez. I'm a server here." Antonio offered his right hand to shake, which Alice easily met halfway.

"Alice Kirkland. You say you work here?"

"_Sí, _but I'm going on my lunch break now."

"Oh, then I wouldn't want to take up your time—"

"But wait! I bumped into you. Let me serve you a drink!"

"No, Mr. Fernandez, I don't want to be a bother!"

"_¡Pero no es un problema!_ I insist. Here, sit down," he said as he guided Alice to a table by the window and seated her on a dark wooden chair. "Now, what can I get you?"

"Please, sir—"

"Call me Antonio!"

"Er, very well—Antonio, you don't need to—"

"But I _want_ to! _¿Por favor?"_His eyes sparkled and insistently prodded at the English girl's resolve.

"Oh…fine," agreed Alice, blushing lightly again. The boy could put on an irresistible set of puppy dog eyes. "Do you serve Earl Grey?"

"Certainly!"

"May I have mine with a slice of lemon?"

_"¡Por supuesto!_ I'll get it right away!" With that, the brunet eagerly walked away, a light bounce in his step that Alice assumed was typical of him.

The blonde girl patiently waited for her drink, passing the brief time by looking out the window and watching the occasional person walk by. Resting her chin on her hand, she observed that some had blond hair like her; others had brown. There were middle-aged faces as well as older, more wrinkled ones, with a young, innocent-looking face or a slightly pimpled one every now and then. Some slumped their shoulders while others walked more confidently. She idly wondered what they might be like, what they had experienced, how they might see things. If they would be interesting to know. Of course, she assumed that none of them had ever tried to run away like she was doing. And she assumed most of them hadn't grown up as she had. Did that make them lucky? For, as exciting as running away might be, one had to have something to run away from. They probably didn't have that 'something' as she did. They probably led simple, average lives. Probably grew up the very same way. As far as she knew, not much happened in a small town.

Alice's thoughts were quickly interrupted by a steaming cup of tea being placed before her. She looked up and saw the grinning face of the boy as he sat down opposite her.

"Oh, you don't have to spend your time with me, Antonio."

"Hey, I can spend my lunch break how I like! Don't worry about it. You looked like you could use a little conversation, and so do I!" His smile grew once more, and it almost surprised the Brit how every one of his smiles seemed to reach his eyes.

"Um, well…what did you want to talk about?" asked Alice, squeezing a few drops of lemon into her tea.

"Hm…I don't know. We could talk about ourselves, I guess. Ah, my family was originally from Spain, and we eventually moved here to Wheatley and started this café."

"Were you born in Spain?"

"Actually, no. I was born in America, _pero, ¡puedo hablar español!_"

"Er—"

"'I can speak Spanish.' In fact, when I was growing up, that was basically all we spoke at home."

"Oh, I see. Well, I was born in England, and my family came over to the United States when I was eight or so."

"So…does that mean you live in this area? I've never seen you around before."

"I…_used_ to live in Kingston."

"Kingston? Isn't that several hours away?"

"Yes," replied Alice, glancing away momentarily.

"So your family moved here?"

"To be honest…no."

"Then…?"

Alice took a sip of her tea, taking in the fragrant, slightly spicy, and citrusy taste. But as calming as it was, she still wasn't sure what to say. Should she tell him? She had already poured part of her heart out to someone she had just met, and she didn't want to do that with _every_ stranger. But would she seem rude to leave the other teen hanging? Oh, sometimes she cursed propriety.

"I…ran away."

"Oh? Really? Why? How?"

These felt like too many questions. Alice tried to sink into her seat—as if that would accomplish anything. She was still perfectly visible, and the Spaniard didn't seem to notice her discomfort anyway. Instead, he waited patiently for her answer, eyes glittering with an innocent curiosity.

"Yes, I did. I ran away because…because…well. Y-You know that feeling, when you're trying to catch your breath? You can still breathe, but it's so hard. As if at any moment, you won't be able get any more air…That's what every moment felt like back in Kingston." Oh, this felt too personal. Why was she so free in giving away her thoughts to strangers? Why did talking to strangers have to feel so easy?

Nonetheless, Antonio nodded in understanding. He still smiled, but it had diminished slightly. Alice presumed that this was as close as he could get to looking serious. It almost amused her. "So," he began, "what brought you here?"

She let herself scoff, though a bit half-heartedly. "An arrogant French frog named Francis Bonnefois—that's what."

"Francis…that name sounds a little familiar."

"What? Don't tell me you know the idiot."

"Um…maybe. I can't remember how."

"Well…you should hope that you don't actually know him. He's a shallow, egocentric, _perverted _buffoon. It's my greatest misfortune to be acquainted with him."

"Oh…but then what did you mean by—?"

"We're, ah…traveling 'companions' in the loosest sense of the word. But honestly, we can't stand each other."

"But then why—?"

"I'm assuming that alcohol is the answer, okay?"

"Er…okay? So, what do you plan to do now?"

Alice shrugged and took another sip of her tea. "I didn't come up with a plan for any of this. The idea was to run away—I don't know what I ought to do now. Although…"

_"¿Sí?"_

"I met a girl in this town, and I told her I'd help her somehow. The problem is, I probably spoke too soon."

"What do you mean?"

"She's in a similar situation that I was in. She wants to get away, but she can't. Different reasons why…but that's all one."

"Who is she?"

The Brit paused. Should she say? Well, they probably knew each other anyway…it was a small town. People were close in small towns, right? "Romina Vargas."

"Mina? _¿De verdad?" _asked the boy, eyes widening.

"So you know her?"

"Of course! I love _mi tomatita!_ She's very sweet and pretty and smart and cute!" Alice wasn't sure about the other descriptions, but 'sweet' certainly was not the word she would use.

Suddenly, the Spaniard's face became concerned, smile falling off his face entirely. The cheery air he gave off had also changed, much to the English girl's surprise. "What could be wrong with Mina?" he asked.

Great. Now Alice was not only revealing her own personal details to strangers, but other people's too. At what point was not speaking more proper than speaking? Well, either way, she was _such_ a wonderful person. "Nothing's wrong with her, per se. It's just that…like I said. That feeling that you can barely breathe…I bet that's how she feels."

_"What's happened?"_

First impressions of the boy had definitely deceived her. Who knew how grave he could look and act? His eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes flickered with honest concern, and he was too worried to smile.

"Romina was wrong to say no one cared…" mumbled Alice.

_"¿Que?_ How could _mi tomatita amada_ think that? Doesn't she understand? I thought that after all those times we danced together…"

"Wait—Romina dances?"

"Hm? Oh, _sí_," said Antonio, eyes turning dreamy and glassy and face melting into a placid expression, much like a still, peaceful lake. "Mina is an amazing dancer. Mina's just so beautiful when she dances—so graceful, but also sharp and passionate…she's like…like…_fuego. _Ah—fire, that is. She's wild, but she can be tamed sometimes—though not easily." Here the Spaniard let out a knowing laugh. "She's full of fury, but she's so bright, so hot, even when she lashes out. And you always might get burnt by the flames, but it's worth it to get so close, to feel so warm…"

Alice was completely floored. This apparently happy-go-lucky, oblivious boy could not only be serious, but he could also sound poetic and romantic without a hint of irony. She let a small smile previously threatening to show, show. This Romina girl had a lot more going for her than she had thought. "Do you think," asked the Brit, "that Romina has a chance of making it as a dancer?"

Her words took a long time to penetrate through Antonio's haze of fantastical memories, but when they finally got through, he responded with a loud, "_Think?_ I _know._ Mina deserves to be happy and dancing and, and—what did you say? Free? Free to breathe?" Alice gave a quick nod. "Mina deserves all of that, and she'll get it! She can do it! She _will_ do it! I'll make sure of that!"

The English teen smiled at the look of determination on the Spaniard's face, and then looked down at her tea. It had long since been lukewarm, and had even long since been cool. It was now cold and unpleasant, but to be honest, Alice didn't truly mind. That is, until the Spanish boy stood abruptly and shook the table. The liquid sloshed out of its cup, but the Brit wasn't paying much as much attention to that as she did to the tanned figure running out the door.

"Antonio, where are you—?" Alice silenced herself. In all likeliness, it was to _L'Impero Romano_ to talk to a certain Italian girl who would find the attention very bothersome (yet at the same time, reassuring).

She smirked as she left money for her drink on the table and rose to leave. So she had figured out a way to help Romina after all. _And_ without the frog's help.

* * *

><p>Alice made her way back to the hotel after a good half-hour of wandering around Wheatley in circles. There wasn't much to see or much to do besides walk through these blocks over and over again, perhaps stopping sporadically to cast a brief glance at something or other. Typically a potted plant or maybe an interesting cloud. She had seen most of the buildings already. She had thought of going back to the small hotel a few times, but she had decided she didn't want to impolitely intrude on an unquestionably heated conversation. Partly out of actual concern for the Italian; partly out of some remaining spite for the rude girl.<p>

But now, her legs were tired (and hurt a bit like hell), she was bored, and those two had probably finished talking. It couldn't hurt to go back at this point.

Immediately, as she walked into the hotel, a stringent voice cried out, "_Stronza! _You sent him here, didn't you?"

Alice looked up to see the scowling red face of Romina Vargas, as well as a certain pair of tan arms wrapped around her neck. The Brit cheekily assumed the red color was less out of anger and more out of embarrassment. "So," she began, "did I help at all?"

"Not at all," growled the Italian teen, almost to Alice's surprise. "Now instead of staying here for the rest of my life, I'm going to have to spend it dancing with this fool." But it was clear she didn't mean it.

The so-called fool merely smiled in response, green eyes twinkling like bright little stars. And if they weren't simply tricks of the light, then Alice most certainly saw the corners of Romina's lips twitch upward and a little flicker of something even remotely happy in those brown eyes.

The English teen smirked and pleasantly responded, "I'm sorry to have doomed you to a life of torture."

"You're not really sorry, bitch. You're just saying that."

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"Fuck you."

"I'm sure your friend there wouldn't like you doing that." Alice watched the Italian's dark red blush manage to deepen even further and heard the Spaniard coo a few words on how, "Mina, you look just like a little tomato!"

The Brit managed a smile as she slipped away towards the stairs.

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_s'il te pla_î_t _– please (French)

_Che cazzo vuoi__? _– What the fuck do you want? (Italian)

_Che! Che cazzo ti frega? _- What! Why the fuck do you care? (Italian)

_El Camino a España _– The Way to Spain (Spanish)

_¡Perdóneme! _– Pardon me! (Spanish)

_Sí _– Yes (Spanish)

_¡Pero no es un problema! _– But it's not a problem! (Spanish)

_¿Por favor? _– Please? (Spanish)

_¡Por supuesto! _– Of course! (Spanish)

_¿De verdad? _– Really? (Spanish)

_mi tomatita amada _– my beloved little tomato (Spanish, although I don't know if you can feminize _tomatito_ like that)

_¿Que? _– What?

_Stronza! _– Bitch! (Italian, but while _stronza _is closer to "bitch", _stronzo _is closer to "asshole")

Hm…I'm definitely more confident with the Spanish/Italian translations. But I'm still open to corrections!

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Lame!ending cannot even support itself. I mean, just look at that cheesy, happy happiness for Spain and fem!Romano.**

**Sigh, whatever. Now, rambly!notes.**

**1) Oh my gosh, **_**how **_**did I make this chapter so long? Sigh, it was probably **_**all the dialogue**_**. But I didn't mean it—I thought this was going to be short, but apparently not…**

**2) I've _actually_ been making up cities that technically exist. There are at least two real-life Wheatleys: one in Ontario, Canada and one in Arkansas, US. And Kingston is at least a city in New York State, US. There is also, in fact, a **_**song**_** called Kingston Town by Lord Creator, covered by UB40. And you know what? I kind of like it. I swear, I didn't know any of this before. Coincidence—you're just…incredible.**

**3) Another note on locations: I've finally decided that our duo started in New York State—because—but not necessarily in the real-life Kingston. Wheatley is still a made-up place, and Alice and Francis don't know where it is exactly. However, from now on, they will occasionally **_**actually**_** know what state they're in. In fact, if you guys want to suggest (real) places for them to visit, feel free to mention it in a review.**

**4) You know, I'd **_**really **_**appreciate feedback or suggestions (positive or negative) on this chapter. I'm not sure if I wrote the subplot well, if it seems pointless or not, etc. So, I'd love to see your response, and especially your suggestions for future subplots. (Also, I know France wasn't in this much, but I couldn't work him in the way it was going. I'll try harder next time…?)**

**5) I was wondering…I know I said I didn't like this chapter too much, but I still kind of want to do an omake sort of thing on Spain and fem!Romano's conversation. Because it seems too suddenly resolved here. Would anyone be interested in seeing that?**

**6) So, again, I have to thank all you subscribers, reviewers and…favorite-ers(?). And, well, you readers in general. I'm sorry; I just like knowing people 'out there' on the internetz will even bother with my little story.**

**But, bleh. I'm far too talkative. So, bye for now, mah peeps! Be marshmellow! (Marsh**_**mallow**_**, marsh**_**mellow**_**? Sigh, I'm not clever...)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: _Yes, I know I've taken a long time to update. _But between being unable to write for this story (yeah, that horrid beast called "writer's block") and school starting up again…ugh. Also, despite all the time I had, I expect this will seem like crap, you know that? Just…as I wrote it, it felt like some sort of whiny, uninteresting angst-fest. At least I have plenty of internet apology cookies…**

_**~~~An Important Note~~~**_

**I know I've already taken so long to post this one chapter, but I'm thinking that this story will be going on a sort of hiatus until I get inspired again, with a new story taking my main focus. It's simply because I really just don't know where I'm going with this story and thus if I like the direction. Sorry.**

**So…I'm going to shamelessly self-promote now. The new story is called "I Will Give You a Rose", and it's a mental home AU with France/fem!England again. (Because I felt like it?) I've got a bit of it written already, so I'll probably post it, er, eventually. And yes, I know this is a shameless self-plug, but I'd really appreciate it if some people checked it out…?**

**Now, disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

**Warnings: Expletives. Scandalous, I know.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Should Alice feel all happy and accomplished now? It seemed as though she had just made someone else very happy—wasn't that supposed to give her warm, fuzzy feelings as people say? And well, she did feel good for helping the girl out. And she hoped for the best for Romina and Antonio, of course. Alice would never want to wish ill will on people (who didn't deserve it).

Yet she couldn't help feeling just a tad bit bitter. Here those two were, seemingly about to parade contentedly into the sunset, into their happily-ever-after. Which went against exactly what she believed about love and life. There weren't 'happily-ever-afters'. There were lives spent struggling to get from one day to the next until one's body decided to give out. There were lives spent traveling from one evanescent source of happiness to another. There weren't lives spent perfectly in love, because love wasn't enough to get through half of the difficulties that might come crashing into one's life. She could say that out of experience.

Dammit, she was _really_ bitter, wasn't she? She just couldn't be happy for other people because of her incredible cynicism. She was such a wonderful person.

Alice sighed in frustration as she opened up the door to the hotel room. Upon entering, she noticed there was a faint stream of light coming from outside. However, it was not bright enough to fully illuminate the room. Thus, with a flick of her wrist, she turned on the lights and could then clearly tell that Bonnefois was nowhere to be found. He wasn't sleeping in his bed, nor was he hiding around a corner to scare her. (Well, it wasn't as if she was going put it past him…)

He could have gone out while she was away. Alice didn't really care. Maybe she could read something until she fell asleep. She wouldn't mind that.

_Except _she remembered that everything but her purse was in the trunk of the car, and Bonnefois had the keys. Fine. She might as well just sleep.

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><p>Francis had woken up from his nap at least an hour ago. Almost immediately, he had hauled a chair out to the balcony and closed the sliding doors behind him. He propped himself comfortably up on the railing and looked out at the small town again.<p>

None of the buildings reached very far above the horizon. Perhaps only one or two stories beyond the skyline, if at all. Most of them were made of brick and wood—no sleek, shiny metal. It gave a nice, cozy feeling, especially as the wind blew a little colder than would be ideal. There were also little patches of greenery planted every here and there among the city blocks. Rustling dark green trees were encircled by colorful flowers. Nothing opulent, but just appealing enough.

Everything felt so modest, so simple. There was no unnecessary grandeur—things were good enough. But that was the interesting thing. They were good enough, but that did not mean mediocre or dull. It was merely at the point where simplicity was most beautiful.

Somewhat like his moth—_no. _Why did he insist on connecting everything to her? He _didn't _want to think of that again. He had done so once today. A second watering for her memory was not needed.

Yet try as he did to think about other things, his thoughts were never distracted long enough. It always came back to his mother. And he hated it. He hated how he couldn't forget her; he hated how he was even _trying_ to forget her. He hated how her memory nagged at him for all his stupid thoughts, for all his stupid actions. She must hate him, mustn't she? If only he had not been so immature then.

Was it payback, then? That for never thinking in the past, whenever he thought now, he would be haunted?

It was infuriating. These pent-up feelings of shame, guilt, regret, anger, grief, inadequacy…even if he dared to let tears fall, it wasn't enough. Those emotions stayed lodged tightly in his heart, as though the ridiculous organ couldn't stand to remove them and free itself of all those heavy burdens. No many how many salty rivers ran, no matter how many racking sobs slipped out, some part of him felt incomplete, such that that part latched onto whatever it could, be it good or bad.

For example, he'd tried being arrogant. He'd tried being self-centered and loving of his own reflection. And that worked a little. Trying to love oneself wasn't hard when one willingly ignored all his faults and flaws. Forgetting how terrible a person he was made him feel better, but that meant he could never remember.

He'd tried loving everyone he could—girls, boys; older, younger. Such physical factors were all irrelevant to him. It always worked—momentarily. Then he would feel tired and worse than before. So he always looked for more.

He'd tried getting in trouble, making mischief, raising havoc. He'd gotten many quick, fun thrills. But much like loving, it faded swiftly and left a deeper longing for more.

He couldn't win by placating this feeling. So now he was trying to run away from it. Yet, more than ever, her memory upbraided him. Well. Only when he allowed himself to stop and think.

When _was_ the last time he had thought this much? Francis suddenly scoffed. He was sure that a little English snob would say never, but that wasn't what he meant. When was the last time he hadn't tried to distract himself and let his thoughts come freely?

Damn this. Francis pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and took a relieving drag. Some of the stress seemed to fall away, just slightly. But he knew, as he watched the smoke rise skyward and be blown away, that she was disappointed about this, too. He just couldn't please her. She would never be able to rest easily.

In frustration, he chucked his still-burning cigarette away onto the ground. It fell slowly (considering how light it was), and little white flakes of ash shed away, lingering in the air a little longer. Francis almost made the effort to profoundly compare his life to this observation, but damn it all. What did pretty metaphors do? What purpose could they serve for him? He didn't write poetry, and besides. Even if it sounded deep, that didn't mean it would actually _mean_ anything.

…He regretfully realized he wanted another cigarette.

And sure enough, smoke was soon writhing above his head again and dispersing with the light breeze. This was a nice and mindless task. Watching the smoke toss and turn more than a child having nightmares could occupy his time without letting his mind wander, so long as he focused intensely on every fluid motion of the dirtied, gray air.

Yes. Yet another distraction.

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><p>Alice woke up not too long after Francis walked back into the room. She blamed it on the boy smelling heavily of cigarette smoke. That, and he had abruptly flipped the lights on. Inconsiderate bastard.<p>

Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, she sat up in her bed, her untied hair falling as a tangled mess around her shoulders. The outlines of everything were blurred, as she had not yet put her glasses back on.

Francis glanced over at the disheveled Brit and tried to put on his usual supercilious air. She would never notice the half-heartedness. "Good evening, _ma cherie. _Did you sleep well?"

At the sound of his voice, Alice instinctively scowled. "Belt up. Is it really evening now?"

He smirked. "You know, if you tell me to 'belt up', how am I supposed to answer you?"

"Oh, stop being difficult. Is it?"

"Apparently."

"You've been out awhile, then. I could have sworn it was still early afternoon when I fell asleep."

"I don't care," he replied with a shrug, sitting on the edge of his bed and facing her. Just then, he noticed something peculiar about the English girl's face. "Kirkland…is there something wrong with your left eye?"

Alice froze immediately. No…she had covered it up earlier. Bonnefois had to be messing with her. "Of course not," she snapped, unconsciously bringing her left hand up to her face. "What are you going on about?"

"It's just—stop trying to hide it, _con_," mumbled Francis as he approached her and pushed her hand aside, holding it down. Sure enough, there was a distinct dark purple coloration around her eye. "How did you get this?"

"G-Get what?"

"This black eye."

"I…don't know what you're talking about."

"Kirkland, despite what you may think, your lies are often as see-through as you yourself."

"I-I don't know!" she cried, attempting to wrench her hand out the French boy's grip and cover her eye again. Unfortunately, he only tightened his hold.

"You clearly do. So what happened?"

"I ran into a wall!"

"Is that the best you can do? Give a discredited excuse overused by books and movies?"

"Wh-What…what do you want? Do you s-suddenly care about my well being?"

Her question caught him off-guard. He couldn't tell why he was unexpectedly giving a damn like this. No…he still didn't care about her. If anything, it was just to satisfy his curiosity. Or maybe his natural empathy toward his fellow man was momentarily forgetting that Kirkland was just barely human. "As if I would. But surely you cannot expect me to believe you were too stupid and oblivious to avoid a wall? You are quite ignorant and moronic, but even I find that a stretch."

Alice scowled. "Even when you show me the tiniest bit of compassion, you still can't help insulting me, can you?"

"Naturally. Now, this would all be over much more quickly if you would just answer my question."

"I don't have to tell you! C-Can't you just leave me alone?"

"You are also very dense. Of course not."

"Just belt up! Go away!" Alice shoved the French boy away, and he was taken aback for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, she broke from his grip, ran toward the bathroom, and slammed the door shut.

With a small _click, _Alice had successfully locked herself away. _Good_, she thought as she slid onto the white tiles, tightly wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her head on her knees. She felt her heartbeat rage erratically inside her chest and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Though it didn't stop one or two tears from slipping out.

Fucking hell. How could she have been so careless? How could she have let him see her like that? Dammit, how long would it be until he figured everything out? That her bastard of a 'father' did this to her? And that she was too weak, too pathetic to do anything about it? Dammit…she was comfortable hating him and being hated in return. But now? She could hate him, but he'd only pity her. They could no longer be bitter rivals or mutual enemies. She would always be beneath him in his eyes…

Alice simply sat there, leaning against the wooden door, quietly cursing herself and Bonnefois and her father and everything else. When a pang of drowsiness thankfully washed over her, she swore that if she could help it, she wouldn't come out again, ever.

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><p><strong>AN: Major weaksauce ending tastes like applesauce made from rotten apples. ****Sorry.**

**I might just re-write this chapter later, because it seems fairly atrocious. I don't typically hate things, so I suppose I just **_**really **_**dislike this chapter. So if you don't mind me, ****I'm going to my self-deprecation**** corner.**

**Anyway, as I said, my attention's moving to a different story. Yes, I know that's probably a disappointment, but I just do not like or even fully **_**know**_** where this story is heading. I'm taking a break, and one day, I'll hopefully come back to this with new ideas. You're welcome to contribute your ideas, too, I suppose. Okay?**

**Please and thank you, peoples.**


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